Thursday, December 23, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
"Burn, Wall Street, Burn" by The Klute
Burn, Wall Street, Burn
By The Klute
By The Klute
I watch CNBC.I read the Wall Street Journal.
I check stock tickers,
Study insider reports,
Consult my broker on a daily basis.
After careful deliberation,
I have decided to empty my bank account,
Convert it to unmarked twenty-dollar bills,
Go directly to Las Vegas,
Put it all on black.
When the ball drops in my favor,
I could use those liquid assests to diversify my portfolio,
Invest heavily in pencils and apples,
And for once, be on the ground floor -
That place where all the stock brokers will land
When they finally succumb to mantra of doom...
The endless repetition of "Buy! Sell! Buy! Sell!"
That turn becomes "JUMP!!! JUMP!!! JUMP!!!",
Playing on an infinite loop in the back of their mind
When they look out their office windows
And imagine the sweet release of death
Waiting for them on pavement below.
Good.
Give in to it, Wall Street,
Embrace your destiny.
I want my 401K back.
I'm not getting it back.
I've been advised it resides at the First Bank of the Land of Imagination,
Currently being managed by a crack team of leprechauns and unicorns,
Being leveraged into moon beams and fairy dust.
I shouldn't worry though.
I'll get my disbursement check as soon as I begin collecting Social Security.
This just in…
I'm not getting Social Security either!
So the time has come
To beat our shares into pitchforks,
Set our stock portfolios alight to guide our way,
To storm the castle
And kill the monster.
Now, I’m not suggesting you head to the headquarters of Goldman Sachs
With a pistol-grip pump shotgun,
Kick down the door,
Shout “I am the Angel of Death – the time of purification is at hand!”
Then start paying out double-barrel killshot bonuses
With a gleam in your eye and a song in your heart.
Oh wait, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting!
Because there will be a reckoning,
A tallying of names and a cracking of skulls,
And it will be easier for a camel to thread the eye of a needle
Then it will be for a fat-cat to avoid my lead.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Who is John Galt?
Who cares.
He’s dead.
I killed him and he’s buried in a shallow, unmarked grave outside of town
Next to the bodies of Adam Smith and Horatio Alger.
Stop asking questions.
Because it’s time for action.
Swift, brutal, unthinking mob action.
Let’s head to Wall Street
Block all the exits at the New York Stock Exchange.
Let’s give these American heroes the reward they so richly deserve.
Let loose rabid bulls and bears as an appetizer of destruction,
Rain down burning ticker tape like the wrath of God from the gallery,
Sing “Auld Lang Zyme ” with the vengeful ghost of George Bailey, Sr.
Then roast marshmallows on the smoking ruin,
Toasting our lost fortunes as we drink from the skulls of Morgan Stanley and Charles Schawb.
Because I watch CNBC and read the Wall Street Journal.
I now know the true meaning of class warfare.
The horror...
The horror...
Burn, Wall Street, Burn
Copyright 2010 © Bernard "The Klute" Schober
Klute, The: A rare breed of Southern Arizona slam poet, originally raised in Southern Florida (however, he's not a native Floridian - rumors trace his origin back to Illinois).Abhors use of rhyme schemes in poetry, writes almost exclusively in free verse. Frequent targets: the goth subculture, neoconservativism (especially Dick Cheney), and crass-commercialism. Member of the 2002, 2003, 2005, and 2006 Mesa National Slam teams (Mesa's 2005 slam champion), and 2008's Phoenix Slam Team. SlamMaster of the Mesa Poetry Slam. Has released three chapbooks of his work: 2002's "Escape Velocity", 2005's "Look at What America Has Done to Me", and 2008's "My American Journey". Ask him nicely and he might send you a copy. Primary habitat considered to be raves (especially desert parties), goth clubs, and dimly lit dive bars. Prefers vodka, rum, and absinthe when drinking. Is considered friendly, but when cornered, lashes out with a fury not seen since last Thursday. He's totally smitten with his girlfriend, Teresa - so don't ask him to dance. Feel free to buy him a drink, but remember, he's not putting out. No matter how much you beg.
People are talking about The Klute!
AZSlim, Espresso Pundit poster: Don't argue with The Klute. His hyperventilating and pure hypocrisy shown in these (and many other) posts makes reasoning with a two-year old who didn't get the popsicle he wanted seem tame by comparison.
Phoenix 944 Magazine says: Despite the heat, [The Klute] wears a black trench coat almost everywhere he goes and if the setting permits, he’ll blast through enough slanderous commentary to make Andrew Dice Clay blush. [He] admits he started slam poetry out of arrogance. He saw a performance and figured he could do better, after which he also admits he failed miserably. Today, his addiction for getting in front of the microphone and spitting out everything from a Dick Cheney haiku to a long-winded prose on race car driving to the late Hunter S. Thompson is as strong as his love for vodka and absinthe. If anyone’s seen “The Klute” in action, they’d know it. If they haven’t, they must.
Jerome duBois, The Tears of Things: You have one of the blackest hearts I've ever had the misfortune to glimpse.
The Klute on LiveJournal
Photo of The Klute by Jessica Mason-Paull
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Lives of Other Men
Again, another old poem I recently found. This one was written Saturday, Sept. 18, 2004, at 3:10 p.m.
The Lives of Other Men
on these mornings
I wish for the lives of other men
who can not calculate the distances
between faraway cities
who do not know the details
of how what came when
the bliss of minds
who do not know the differences between men
and assume that all have the lives we live
I wish the stories I could tell
were fictions
whose specifics were authored, not endured
because the narrations
of fallen systems and blind eyes toward good men
proves the privilege of my birth
and our ideals
are pretty parchment passages
with good intentions
I'm ashamed I once believed
this life is an accident
the branches of my tree
belong to a better man
who knew to not waste them
but I stepped in
and held tight the lie that I had it rough
because suburban religions
preach to the choir with bake sales
and new pipe organs
or golf club politics
while boys like me
tell tales of tattoos and riots
bullets shattering Sunday mornings
cells and sentences
I thought only existed in films
make me nameless
reward some lost soul with this life
so they do not wander streets
count in years the absence of children's visits
or leave unlived the rights that parchment offers
let me lease my days
so that boys who could be me
can make redemption more than a word
father more than an abstraction
family more than an anachronism
The Lives of Other Menon these mornings
I wish for the lives of other men
who can not calculate the distances
between faraway cities
who do not know the details
of how what came when
the bliss of minds
who do not know the differences between men
and assume that all have the lives we live
I wish the stories I could tell
were fictions
whose specifics were authored, not endured
because the narrations
of fallen systems and blind eyes toward good men
proves the privilege of my birth
and our ideals
are pretty parchment passages
with good intentions
I'm ashamed I once believed
this life is an accident
the branches of my tree
belong to a better man
who knew to not waste them
but I stepped in
and held tight the lie that I had it rough
because suburban religions
preach to the choir with bake sales
and new pipe organs
or golf club politics
while boys like me
tell tales of tattoos and riots
bullets shattering Sunday mornings
cells and sentences
I thought only existed in films
make me nameless
reward some lost soul with this life
so they do not wander streets
count in years the absence of children's visits
or leave unlived the rights that parchment offers
let me lease my days
so that boys who could be me
can make redemption more than a word
father more than an abstraction
family more than an anachronism
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Cut out my heart and leave it in a gin and tonic on top of a Dave Matthews Band CD
I found a collection of old poems floating in e-mail limbo. The poem was written Sept. 5, 2008.
Cut out my heart and leave it in a gin and tonic on top of a Dave Matthews Band CD
This is beauty,
the way skin bounces off clouds
shouted to a thickened sky
of a heaven too tired to listen
and I feel a step closer to god
when i contemplate our creation
you know we were made in the image
of a drunk deity
who didn't know her/is right from her/is left
tried to shorten our days with death and plague
but we kept coming back
till s/he woke in a hangover
and realized what s/he'd done
was a little ... um ... crazy at the time
a little short on the why’s and how’s
of how we came to be
left us between two dead soldiers of Sam Adams Light
on her/is best friend's neighbor's kitchen counter
'cause s/he was watching her/is figure
tries to hide her/is face in the bar
when we come staggering through,
asking to use the phone.
and begging the bartender to serve us the wine
of the vine that softened Judas' loyalty
then asking the gravedigger to bury us
close enough to count raindrops
of the days till judgment
when pulled from the soil like treasure
we can recall our days before it all went downhill
and convince the final judge
that we're worth sparing
worth including in the finality
then sing a song
soft enough to make the towers crumbles,
tarnish those pearly gates
and force the whole mess
to come crashing down
when heaven falls
the boom will resound through history
in our heartbeats,
and the echoes will come 72 per minute
there,
put your hand on your sternum
can you feel the echo in your chest?
the end has already happened
now we're just words arching toward that final
"the end"
before the acknowledgments,
index,
and afterward from the publisher,
characters on a page.
and tonight,
I glimpse the reader's eyes
Cut out my heart and leave it in a gin and tonic on top of a Dave Matthews Band CDThis is beauty,
the way skin bounces off clouds
shouted to a thickened sky
of a heaven too tired to listen
and I feel a step closer to god
when i contemplate our creation
you know we were made in the image
of a drunk deity
who didn't know her/is right from her/is left
tried to shorten our days with death and plague
but we kept coming back
till s/he woke in a hangover
and realized what s/he'd done
was a little ... um ... crazy at the time
a little short on the why’s and how’s
of how we came to be
left us between two dead soldiers of Sam Adams Light
on her/is best friend's neighbor's kitchen counter
'cause s/he was watching her/is figure
tries to hide her/is face in the bar
when we come staggering through,
asking to use the phone.
and begging the bartender to serve us the wine
of the vine that softened Judas' loyalty
then asking the gravedigger to bury us
close enough to count raindrops
of the days till judgment
when pulled from the soil like treasure
we can recall our days before it all went downhill
and convince the final judge
that we're worth sparing
worth including in the finality
then sing a song
soft enough to make the towers crumbles,
tarnish those pearly gates
and force the whole mess
to come crashing down
when heaven falls
the boom will resound through history
in our heartbeats,
and the echoes will come 72 per minute
there,
put your hand on your sternum
can you feel the echo in your chest?
the end has already happened
now we're just words arching toward that final
"the end"
before the acknowledgments,
index,
and afterward from the publisher,
characters on a page.
and tonight,
I glimpse the reader's eyes
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Russ Kazmierczak wins the Sedona Poetry Slam
Results from the Sedona Poetry SlamRuss Kazmierczak won the Sedona Poetry Slam, held Saturday, Dec. 11, 2010, Studio Live, Sedona, Arizona, 7:30 p.m.
The night was heavily political with a few splashes of humor and a plethora of poetry about current events.
Russ Kazmierczak and The Klute took the lead early and battled to the end, with Russ edging out the Klute by 0.1 in a nail-biter.
Round 1Random Draw
Calibration: Gary Every of Sedona
Maple Dewleaf, of Flagstaff, 24.5, (2:51)
N. Miouo Nance, of Phoenix, 24.7, (3:02)
Russ Kazmierczak, of Tempe, 28.1, (2:04)
Lauren Perry, of Mesa, 26.5, 26.0 after 0.5 time penalty, (3:12)
David Tabor, of Mesa, 27.0, 24.5 after 2.5 time penalty, (3:55)
Joe Griffin, of Flagstaff, 22.6, (1:17)
Danielle Silver, of Sedona, 26.3, (2:12)
Mikel Weisser, of Kingman, 27.1, (3:02)
Ron Lemco, of Sedona, 26.9, (1:31)
Bert Cisneros, the elder poet, of Cottonwood, 26.8, (2:22)
The Klute, of Mesa, 28.7, (3:05)
Tristan Marshell, of Mesa, 28.7, (2:58)
Teaser poem by feature poet Brit Shostak
Host: Christopher Fox Graham of Sedona, "Orion"
Round 2
Reverse Order
Reverse Order
Tristan Marshell, 27.7, (3:00), 55.5
The Klute, 29.6, (3:04), 58.3
Bert Cisneros, the elder poet, 26.5, (2:14), 53.3
Ron Lemco, 26.7, (1:10), 53.6
Mikel Weisser, 27.0, (2:28), 54.1
Danielle Silver, 27.8, (2:50), 54.1
Joe Griffin, 26.9, (1:24), 49.5
David Tabor, 28.9, (2:35), 53.4
Lauren Perry, 28.6, (2:55), 54.6
Russ Kazmierczak, 29.6, (2:06), 57.7
N. Miouo Nance, 27.0, (1:54), 51.7
Maple Dewleaf, 28.3, (2:12), 52.8
Feature Poet
Brit Shostak is in a constant battle for balance. She spends most days trying to read as much as she writes, be as creative as the things that inspire her, and love as much as she is loved.
She is a life-long four-eyes, who sings in the shower and tries to listen as much as she speaks.She still prefers typing most things on her 1957 Underwood typewriter.
When she was just a tot she had to get stitches in her eyebrow after running into a bookcase at the library. Legend says that something from that event stuck.
After writing for what seems like as long as she could hold a pencil she has published two chapbooks, “Kissing Lightning Bolts” (2009) and “Lessons in Calamity” (210).
She has just released her first CD, “Thieving the Midnight Oil.”
Although Shostak enjoys the competitive thrill of slams she is actively pursuing a degree in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry and finds the page just as if not more important than performance.
Shostak was the 2009 Mesa representative at the Individual World Poetry Slam and a member of the 2009 and 2010 Mesa National Slam Poetry teams.
She has also had the extreme pleasure of reading in front of poetry legends Sonia Sanchez, poetry slam creator Marc Kelly Smith and S.A. Griffin.
After spending the last decade in the desert she is headed to the Pacific Northwest in search of adventure, good coffee, and the perfect tree to read a book beneath.
Shostak is a dandelion seed looking for a place to plant herself. She does most of her deeds in watermelon sugar.
Sorbet: Gary Every of Sedona
Round 3
High to Low
High to Low
The Klute, 29.5, 29.0 after 0.5 time penalty, (3:11), 87.3Russ Kazmierczak, 29.7, (1:54), 87.4
Tristan Marshell, 29.1, (2:50), 84.6
Lauren Perry, 28.9, 28.4 after 0.5 time penalty (3:13), 83.0
Danielle Silver, 27.7, (2:22), 81.8
Mikel Weisser, 28.3, (2:19), 82.4
Ron Lemco, 28.6, (2:32), 82.2
David Tabor, 30.0*, (2:40), 83.4. *Four 10s
Bert Cisneros, the elder poet, 28.8, (1:58), 82.1
Maple Dewleaf, 27.9, (1:52), 80.7
N. Miouo, Nance, 28.1, (2:16), 79.8
Joe Griffin, 28.3, (1:07), 77.8
Final scores1st: Russ Kazmierczak, 87.4, $100
2nd: The Klute, 87.3
3rd: Tristan Marshell, 84.6
David Tabor, 83.4
Lauren Perry, 83.0
Mikel Weisser, 82.4
Ron Lemco, 82.2
Bert Cisneros, the elder poet, 82.1
Danielle Silver, 81.8
Maple Dewleaf, 80.7
N. Miouo Nance, 79.8
Joe Griffin, 77.8
Slam staff
Scorekeeper and Timekeeper: Sarah LepichHost: Christopher Fox Graham
Organizers:
Studio Live
Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry
Next Sedona Poetry Slam: Saturday, Dec. 11, 2010, Studio Live, Sedona, Arizona, 7:30 p.m., featuring Mesa's Brit Shostak.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Recording: Seven Years of Solitude
Seven Years of Solitude by FoxThePoet
Seven Years of Solitude
First published Thursday, Dec. 31, 2009, 9 a.m.
Seven years of solitude
one-night stands
and last names lost to the wind
I wrote them in chronological order
carved their names in the sand
rewrote our mythologies
into my own fictions
to win 10s from strangers who preferred verses
rather than the cut and dry facts of thrusting hips
and white lies to strip cotton from our skins
before clothing ourselves in dawn-lit shame
of till-we-meet-agains
I found her literally in my own back yard
spreading dandelions along her path
on highways and backcountry roads
from the tundra to Sonora
fallen into disuse by travelers —
save Kerouac scholars
she called herself a hobo,
always homeward bound
but yet to find a doorstep to call her own
she came to kiss the red from the rocks
paint her lips with this Martian dust
swirl pirouettes in the vortices
verify that stars here match home
and chase down crash-landed aliens
looking for a one-way trip home to Perseus
she coaxed herself inside
to better hear the word
by smiths more crafted than me
pressed skin to skin
and melted my insides into cheddar
smothered the sheets
in her unrepentant smiles
she is joy
unpasteurized, caffeine-free, antioxidant-rich
joy
if it could drip from its source
sculpt itself into flesh and skin and bones
camber its soft exterior into curves
tender to trepid fingertips
hesitant to brush capsulated ebullience
lest it evanesce into vapor
like the morning fog
she zipped herself up behind a smile
radiant as auroras
to stay warm in the Yukon
we knew from the first kiss
the impending expiration date
I could only hold her so long
before wanderlust reignited her blood
pumped visions of highway sunsets into her aorta
pulled her sticky sunrise from my bed
I held tightly to dreams
that I would foresee us waking unshared unemptied
in the decades to come
but behind shuttered eyes
one loses the path of footsteps
roads meander as they must
not as we desire
and mountains have yet to yield to men
we were doomed to end
from the first morning we shared
without a second thought
or smile in a stranger's rearview
after her outstretched thumb purchased passage
yet I found her bedecked in my socks
or shirts or shorts and boxers after a time
she left me thrice:
to smell the stories wafting on Diné desert
see tors resistant to harassing winds —
play in a park where symbols of peace
were even written on the stones —
pioneer the plateau seared asunder
by patient waters that still run wild
too oblivious to laugh at our cages
knowing that they too will one day fall
Ozymandias could not conquer the sands
Hoover cannot break the canyon's will
though the crest once offered us a view
down to the moonlit sea
all endeavors come to an end
despite the glory
of their lofty dedications
each time, the gravity of our weight
pulled orbits back to the same ellipse
we shared atmospheres
and now with her light years across the plain
it's harder to breathe the air
before I knew her grace
in the winter nights
with the rest of the house bursting with life
lovers pressing tender touches
uncaring of audiences
friends rehashing old wounds reopened
musicians repeating tunes remembered by fingertips alone
I long for her pride
I languish for the smell of her with days trapped in hair
I yearn for the exhilaration of her tender brilliance
dropping falling stars into my exosphere
to scar the surface
leaving us again in the naked ecstasy
when the world faded away
leaving us alone with our uninhibited vices
the nights seem colder
and my limbs never warm enough to sleep through the night
awake with dreams unremembered
each one leaves a passport of her absence
the way she alone could seem to fill the bed with her laughter
as I left her in the mornings
our last day
remains wickedly vivid
how I longed to break my fingers and toes
to render my hands unable to labor
feet unable to leave her
knowing that as the door closed
when I next returned
she'd not greet me with outstretched arms
and leopardic leaps to pin me beneath her passions
in the center of my city
tourists who came for millennial stones unbroken
saw us cleave together our last moments
and for the first time, she shed tears
broke open her dam
to cleave the street beneath us in two
in a way only the canyons know
the red rocks above trembled in dread
conjuring that winds and creeks had taken their toll
but she, unleashed, could finally break them into red sand
washing them like blood into the seas
there, at a crossroads I could recreate from memory
she said I would not cross the road with her
I was unable to follow
could not take her trek homeward bound
because I had never been
she carried my heart across the asphalt lanes
tied up in her pack
beneath snacks for the road
betwixt books and rolled socks
she carried it in secret
which I knew as she walked away from me
along a stretch of road
that seemed to widen for miles
until I lost her behind what could have been her next ride
or mere passersby
stained with her goodbyes
I watched until she was vapor and wind
red hat and pack
and then a mirage
as if she never was
but the hollow in my chest
beat her empty echoes with thumps in rhythm to her wandering footsteps
I send out platoons of foxes to find her
seek her out even in cities unknown to their habits
hoping their spying slyness
can catch her eye
now I seek out hitchhikers
the way addicts itch for a fix
I want to ask if they've seen her
if I can glean some knowledge of her whereabouts
and if they haven't yet
if they would pass on a message in my absence:
Seven Years of Solitude
First published Thursday, Dec. 31, 2009, 9 a.m.
Seven years of solitude
one-night stands
and last names lost to the wind
I wrote them in chronological order
carved their names in the sand
rewrote our mythologies
into my own fictions
to win 10s from strangers who preferred verses
rather than the cut and dry facts of thrusting hips
and white lies to strip cotton from our skins
before clothing ourselves in dawn-lit shame
of till-we-meet-agains
I found her literally in my own back yard
spreading dandelions along her path
on highways and backcountry roads
from the tundra to Sonora
fallen into disuse by travelers —
save Kerouac scholars
she called herself a hobo,always homeward bound
but yet to find a doorstep to call her own
she came to kiss the red from the rocks
paint her lips with this Martian dust
swirl pirouettes in the vortices
verify that stars here match home
and chase down crash-landed aliens
looking for a one-way trip home to Perseus
she broke me open like an egg
scrambled my contents with her garlic smile
smothered in maple leaf syrup
and salted to taste
scrambled my contents with her garlic smile
smothered in maple leaf syrup
and salted to taste
she coaxed herself inside
to better hear the word
by smiths more crafted than me
pressed skin to skin
and melted my insides into cheddar
smothered the sheets
in her unrepentant smiles
she is joy
unpasteurized, caffeine-free, antioxidant-rich
joy
if it could drip from its source
sculpt itself into flesh and skin and bones
camber its soft exterior into curves
tender to trepid fingertips
hesitant to brush capsulated ebullience
lest it evanesce into vapor
like the morning fog
she zipped herself up behind a smile
radiant as auroras
to stay warm in the Yukon
we knew from the first kiss
the impending expiration date
I could only hold her so long
before wanderlust reignited her blood
pumped visions of highway sunsets into her aorta
pulled her sticky sunrise from my bed
I held tightly to dreams
that I would foresee us waking unshared unemptied
in the decades to come
but behind shuttered eyes
one loses the path of footsteps
roads meander as they must
not as we desire
and mountains have yet to yield to men
we were doomed to end
from the first morning we shared
each time we pressed hips and lips
I tried to capture the details
with scientific precision
to reconstruct the crime scene of her illegal emigration
from the homeland I built
she could have packed and parted a thousand timeswith scientific precision
to reconstruct the crime scene of her illegal emigration
from the homeland I built
without a second thought
or smile in a stranger's rearview
after her outstretched thumb purchased passage
yet I found her bedecked in my socks
or shirts or shorts and boxers after a time
I would have shed my skin to keep her warm
if it would have delayed her departure
a few hours more
if it would have delayed her departure
a few hours more
she left me thrice:
to smell the stories wafting on Diné desert
see tors resistant to harassing winds —
play in a park where symbols of peace
were even written on the stones —
pioneer the plateau seared asunder
by patient waters that still run wild
too oblivious to laugh at our cages
knowing that they too will one day fall
Ozymandias could not conquer the sands
Hoover cannot break the canyon's will
though the crest once offered us a view
down to the moonlit sea
all endeavors come to an end
despite the glory
of their lofty dedications
each time, the gravity of our weight
pulled orbits back to the same ellipse
we shared atmospheres
and now with her light years across the plain
it's harder to breathe the air
before I knew her grace
in the winter nights
with the rest of the house bursting with life
lovers pressing tender touches
uncaring of audiences
friends rehashing old wounds reopened
musicians repeating tunes remembered by fingertips alone
I long for her pride
I languish for the smell of her with days trapped in hair
I yearn for the exhilaration of her tender brilliance
dropping falling stars into my exosphere
to scar the surface
leaving us again in the naked ecstasy
when the world faded away
leaving us alone with our uninhibited vices
the nights seem colder
and my limbs never warm enough to sleep through the night
awake with dreams unremembered
each one leaves a passport of her absence
the way she alone could seem to fill the bed with her laughter
as I left her in the mornings
our last day
remains wickedly vivid
how I longed to break my fingers and toes
to render my hands unable to labor
feet unable to leave her
knowing that as the door closed
when I next returned
she'd not greet me with outstretched arms
and leopardic leaps to pin me beneath her passions
I couldn’t have loved her better
goodbye was always on our lips
but when the last one came
it broke me down the middle
goodbye was always on our lips
but when the last one came
it broke me down the middle
in the center of my city
tourists who came for millennial stones unbroken
saw us cleave together our last moments
and for the first time, she shed tears
broke open her dam
to cleave the street beneath us in two
in a way only the canyons know
the red rocks above trembled in dread
conjuring that winds and creeks had taken their toll
but she, unleashed, could finally break them into red sand
washing them like blood into the seas
there, at a crossroads I could recreate from memory
she said I would not cross the road with her
I was unable to follow
could not take her trek homeward bound
because I had never been
she carried my heart across the asphalt lanes
tied up in her pack
beneath snacks for the road
betwixt books and rolled socks
she carried it in secret
which I knew as she walked away from me
along a stretch of road
that seemed to widen for miles
until I lost her behind what could have been her next ride
or mere passersby
stained with her goodbyes
I watched until she was vapor and wind
red hat and pack
and then a mirage
as if she never was
but the hollow in my chest
beat her empty echoes with thumps in rhythm to her wandering footsteps
I send out platoons of foxes to find her
seek her out even in cities unknown to their habits
hoping their spying slyness
can catch her eye
now I seek out hitchhikers
the way addicts itch for a fix
I want to ask if they've seen her
if I can glean some knowledge of her whereabouts
and if they haven't yet
if they would pass on a message in my absence:
when the first winter breeze
blows in from the north
I will strip naked wherever I am
in the midst of Times Square,
the hollow of empty woods
or in my own living room
let her cold kisses caress all my sharp curves
feel her twirl around all my edges
inhale her joy so deeply
the atmosphere in my lungs turn to ice
all my pores will rise into goosebumps
to return her ten-thousand kisses
send all my silent words northward to find her
along whatever road she finds herself
wrap the embrace of breath around her
so she feels my arms again
even if just once more
even if just in dreams
even if she never knows
blows in from the north
I will strip naked wherever I am
in the midst of Times Square,
the hollow of empty woods
or in my own living room
let her cold kisses caress all my sharp curves
feel her twirl around all my edges
inhale her joy so deeply
the atmosphere in my lungs turn to ice
all my pores will rise into goosebumps
to return her ten-thousand kisses
send all my silent words northward to find her
along whatever road she finds herself
wrap the embrace of breath around her
so she feels my arms again
even if just once more
even if just in dreams
even if she never knows
Recording: Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn
Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn by FoxThePoet
Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn
First published Thursday, Jan. 28, 2010, 1:55 a.m.
Somewhere between midnights and the dawn,
in the shadows of dreams
old lovers slink into the caverns of my mind
for one-way trips through memories
reminding skin of its old acrobatics
through daylight repetitions
they come as if to see a dying friend
say final words, then bid adieu
and slip out before sunrise
after their emigrations
but before daybreak shutters open my eyes
I find you there, pressing palms to palms
as if you had always remained alongside watching
like an unnoticed scarf
keeping warm my throat to speak words
only you and I know in secret
from then until dawn
I find you have taken all the heroines' places
usurped the leads' roles
as if they were your prequels
just understudies filling seats
while waiting for the star player who was stuck in traffic
there, behind corneas, in the cathedral concavity
we rise upon the stage to play parts
in the fictions that dreams explore
your embrace is no longer forgotten
but repeated karmically as I slouch toward a nirvana
that will wake me at dawn
to the world of ice and steel and lies
with you, I would rather repeat my sins indefinitely
curse off enlightenment for a Bodhisattva
stay entranced for years horizontal and convalescent
ignoring flesh for ether
in a place where our bodies still match puzzle-perfectly
where the world is beholden to dreamers' whims
and your departure is remembered only as theory
I would stay unconscious beneath covers
until starvation or paramedics would extricate me
but the day is a persistent kidnapper
pulling me too soon from the visions of you
with our distance,
you are a disembodied voice
sound waves from a pocket toy
that rings to declare your impending,
leaving me afterward with the longing
to disassemble your components
into 1s and 0s,
transmit you through fiber optics and stationary satellites
and reform you in my living room,
but when the midnights come
and I climb beneath satin sheets
only brevity and steady breathing hinder your return
there, where all the best parts of me
try to remember all the parts of you,
you return unbroken, renewed
to bring me back to you,
the embodiment of joy
who once wore a girl's skin
and shared my arms
when all the world is only imaginary
I yearn for the moments I still have there
ache to make the dreams last longer each time
to keep your absence from its profound loneliness
when dawn wakes me to your vacancy
but the night offers another chance
even if only in my own fictions
to bring you back where you belong
Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn
First published Thursday, Jan. 28, 2010, 1:55 a.m.
Somewhere between midnights and the dawn,
in the shadows of dreams
old lovers slink into the caverns of my mind
for one-way trips through memories
reminding skin of its old acrobatics
through daylight repetitions
they come as if to see a dying friend
say final words, then bid adieu
and slip out before sunrise
after their emigrations
but before daybreak shutters open my eyes
I find you there, pressing palms to palms
as if you had always remained alongside watching
like an unnoticed scarf
keeping warm my throat to speak words
only you and I know in secret
from then until dawn
I find you have taken all the heroines' places
usurped the leads' roles
as if they were your prequels
just understudies filling seats
while waiting for the star player who was stuck in traffic
there, behind corneas, in the cathedral concavity
we rise upon the stage to play parts
in the fictions that dreams explore
your embrace is no longer forgotten
but repeated karmically as I slouch toward a nirvana
that will wake me at dawn
to the world of ice and steel and lies
with you, I would rather repeat my sins indefinitely
curse off enlightenment for a Bodhisattva
stay entranced for years horizontal and convalescent
ignoring flesh for ether
in a place where our bodies still match puzzle-perfectly
where the world is beholden to dreamers' whims
and your departure is remembered only as theory
I would stay unconscious beneath covers
until starvation or paramedics would extricate me
but the day is a persistent kidnapper
pulling me too soon from the visions of you
with our distance,
you are a disembodied voice
sound waves from a pocket toy
that rings to declare your impending,
leaving me afterward with the longing
to disassemble your components
into 1s and 0s,
transmit you through fiber optics and stationary satellites
and reform you in my living room,
but when the midnights come
and I climb beneath satin sheets
only brevity and steady breathing hinder your return
there, where all the best parts of me
try to remember all the parts of you,
you return unbroken, renewed
to bring me back to you,
the embodiment of joy
who once wore a girl's skin
and shared my arms
when all the world is only imaginary
I yearn for the moments I still have there
ache to make the dreams last longer each time
to keep your absence from its profound loneliness
when dawn wakes me to your vacancy
but the night offers another chance
even if only in my own fictions
to bring you back where you belong
Poet Brit Shostak features at the Sedona Poetry Slam on Saturday, Dec. 11
The Sedona Poetry Slam hits the stage at Studio Live at 7:30 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 11, presenting three rounds of poetic competition as poets battle for pride and $100.
Between rounds, the audience will be entertained with a feature performance by Brit Shostak, a two-time Mesa National Poetry Slam Team poet and Individual World Poetry Slam competitor.
Shostak is in a constant battle for balance. She spends most days trying to read as much as she writes, be as creative as the things that inspire her, and love as much as she is loved.
She is a life-long four-eyes, who sings in the shower and tries to listen as much as she speaks.
She still prefers typing most things on her 1957 Underwood typewriter.
When she was just a tot she had to get stitches in her eyebrow after running into a bookcase at the library. Legend says that something from that event stuck.
After writing for what seems like as long as she could hold a pencil she has published two chapbooks, “Kissing Lightning Bolts” (2009) and “Lessons in Calamity” (210).
She has just released her first CD, “Thieving the Midnight Oil.”
Although Shostak enjoys the competitive thrill of slams she is actively pursuing a degree in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry and finds the page just as if not more important than performance.
Shostak was the 2009 Mesa representative at the Individual World Poetry Slam and a member of the 2009 and 2010 Mesa National Slam Poetry teams.
She has also had the extreme pleasure of reading in front of poetry legends Sonia Sanchez, poetry slam creator Marc Kelly Smith and S.A. Griffin.
After spending the last decade in the desert she is headed to the Pacific Northwest in search of adventure, good coffee, and the perfect tree to read a book beneath.
Shostak is a dandelion seed looking for a place to plant herself. She does most of her deeds in watermelon sugar.
All poets are welcome to compete in the slam.
Slammers will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted.
The poets will be judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam. The top poet at the end of the night wins $100.
Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.
Founded in Chicago by construction worker and poet Smith in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.
The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010.
He has hosted and competed in poetry slams and open mics in Sedona since 2004. Graham is a member of the Sedona Performers Guild, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit alliance of musicians, performers and performance poets that runs the 100-seat Studio Live performance space in West Sedona.
Graham founded the bimonthly Sedona Poetry Slam in 2008, bringing in feature poets from around Arizona and the United States.
Graham has performed in 40 states, Toronto, Dublin, Ireland, and London, and wrote the now infamous “Peach” poem.
For more information or to register, call Graham at (928) 517-1400 or e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
Tickets are $5 online if ordered by Dec. 10, or $10 at the door.
Home of the Sedona Performers Guild nonprofit, Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, West Sedona. For more information, visit www.studiolivesedona.com.
Studio Live is located in West Sedona, off Coffee Pot Drive, just north of Bashas' plaza and Oak Creek Brewing Co.
See video from previous poetry slams at www.YouTube.com/FoxThePoet.
For more information about the worldwide phenomena of poetry slam, visit www.poetryslam.com.
Between rounds, the audience will be entertained with a feature performance by Brit Shostak, a two-time Mesa National Poetry Slam Team poet and Individual World Poetry Slam competitor.Feature poet Brit Shostak
Shostak is in a constant battle for balance. She spends most days trying to read as much as she writes, be as creative as the things that inspire her, and love as much as she is loved.
She is a life-long four-eyes, who sings in the shower and tries to listen as much as she speaks.
She still prefers typing most things on her 1957 Underwood typewriter.When she was just a tot she had to get stitches in her eyebrow after running into a bookcase at the library. Legend says that something from that event stuck.
After writing for what seems like as long as she could hold a pencil she has published two chapbooks, “Kissing Lightning Bolts” (2009) and “Lessons in Calamity” (210).
She has just released her first CD, “Thieving the Midnight Oil.”
Although Shostak enjoys the competitive thrill of slams she is actively pursuing a degree in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry and finds the page just as if not more important than performance.
Shostak was the 2009 Mesa representative at the Individual World Poetry Slam and a member of the 2009 and 2010 Mesa National Slam Poetry teams.
She has also had the extreme pleasure of reading in front of poetry legends Sonia Sanchez, poetry slam creator Marc Kelly Smith and S.A. Griffin.
After spending the last decade in the desert she is headed to the Pacific Northwest in search of adventure, good coffee, and the perfect tree to read a book beneath.
Shostak is a dandelion seed looking for a place to plant herself. She does most of her deeds in watermelon sugar.Want to slam?
All poets are welcome to compete in the slam.
Slammers will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted.
The poets will be judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam. The top poet at the end of the night wins $100.
Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.
Founded in Chicago by construction worker and poet Smith in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.
Your host, Christopher Fox Graham
The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010.He has hosted and competed in poetry slams and open mics in Sedona since 2004. Graham is a member of the Sedona Performers Guild, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit alliance of musicians, performers and performance poets that runs the 100-seat Studio Live performance space in West Sedona.
Graham founded the bimonthly Sedona Poetry Slam in 2008, bringing in feature poets from around Arizona and the United States.
Graham has performed in 40 states, Toronto, Dublin, Ireland, and London, and wrote the now infamous “Peach” poem.
Get tickets
For more information or to register, call Graham at (928) 517-1400 or e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
Tickets are $5 online if ordered by Dec. 10, or $10 at the door.Home of the Sedona Performers Guild nonprofit, Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, West Sedona. For more information, visit www.studiolivesedona.com.
Studio Live is located in West Sedona, off Coffee Pot Drive, just north of Bashas' plaza and Oak Creek Brewing Co.
See video from previous poetry slams at www.YouTube.com/FoxThePoet.
For more information about the worldwide phenomena of poetry slam, visit www.poetryslam.com.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)